Daisies and Roses
by Shiro Ryuu
Summary: “Kirie had never been treated like this by a man in her life.”  The story of Rosiel’s seduction of young Kirie, in all its shallow glory.


**AN:** One of two completed stories that I found while sorting my files. I must write or I'll go insane, but college hasn't even been leaving me enough time to post the stuff :o ((coffdramaqueencoff)) So… I'd always kind of meant to write a fic about Kirie, but I finally decided that I'd put it off for far too long when I realized that there were maybe one or two other fics about her on the entire site (plus I've been trying to be less repetitive with my Rosiel-centric fanfiction, heh). The secret admirer gambit was probably inspired by the joke love letters I had been receiving at the time via the white board on my dorm room door... Oh, and—I know that daisies and roses pop up in "White Roses for Morning", but this obviously has nothing to do with that story. I'd just been playing with flower symbolism at the time—daisies stand for purity; red roses stand for love (surprising, I know xD).

•†•†•†•

**Daisies and Roses**

•†•†•†•

Kirie had never been treated like this by a man in her life.

In Heaven, romantic love between angels was strictly taboo. Only God could be allowed to create a new angel, after all. In Kirie's mind this made perfect sense, and until now she had naively thought that perhaps true romantic love was actually impossible for her kind. Several boys had made advances on her before, but they were to a man crude and disgusting, stammering and flushed with their misguided lust. She had dutifully reported them, and could honestly not care less about whatever had happened to them.

This man, though, was different. Her very first present from him had been two dozen red roses, when the best she'd ever had before was a sloppy handful of wild daisies.

The bouquet had been sitting on her bedside table when she came back from class one day, just like that. It had overwhelmed everything in her spartan think tank candidate's room, and drew her eyes again and again. The gracefully handwritten note read _These flowers will blush more beautifully in your presence than ever they did in the sunlight_, and she had stared at that for a long time, too. It had a vaguely blasphemous ring to it, she thought. She knew that she should throw it all out, knew how it would look if she was caught holding on to something like this—but where, after all, was the harm in wanting some pretty flowers? She only liked the gift—she would say—not the sentiment…

Her next gift—fine chocolates the whole way from Assiah—came several days later. That startled her; perhaps an angel of her status could afford two dozen roses without too much trouble, but anything from Earth was ridiculously hard to get one's hands on… unless one was of noble status. She raked her brain for high-ranking angels she had had contact with—surely not one of her teachers? No; even they were indifferent or harsh to her because of her femininity; she could not imagine any of them treating her like this.

The gifts soon began to come more frequently—one day it was a Faberge egg that played a tune; the next it was a gorgeous diamond-accented dress that she of course would have no occasion to wear for years yet—until she was devastatingly disappointed if a day went by without her getting anything new. Additionally, the presents were now often accompanied by full-fledged letters. Her admirer praised her wit, her charm, her grace and beauty, down to the minutest habitual gestures or expressions that she hadn't even been aware she made. And then she would think of him when she made those expressions, and she would think of him on her way back from class as she wondered what he had given her today, and she would think of him in bed at night as she wondered what his face looked like, how his voice might sound…

At first she hoarded her presents jealously—a sparrow hiding her shiny treasures—in whatever space she had, under the mattress or in the closet. As the gifts accumulated, however, she began to grow bolder, leaving her favorite trinkets in plain sight on her dresser and even wearing his jewelry to class. The gemstones drew others' eyes too, to the swell of her throat or to her long graceful fingers, and she glowed in the spotlight. Indeed, when she walked into a classroom one day to total silence, she thought for one wild moment that her elaborate ruby-hung necklace could really be that breathtaking.

That illusion was shattered, however, when the boy who sat next to her leered at her in a wicked way. "That's a beautiful necklace," he sneered. "I bet it's pretty heavy, though, isn't it?"

She stared back at him numbly. "W-what do you mean?"

"Heavy with _sin_!" The other students sniggered behind hands or openly. "You must know that all the maids are talking about you—your presents make them really jealous, you know—didn't you think that we would find out sooner or later?"

She backed away from the accusation; an elbow jostled her and—seemingly by accident—a foot kicked her ankle. "No—I'm not—it's not my _fault-_"

"Pathetic!" someone shouted. Others followed, voices on all sides rising together: "Filthy woman!" and there were hands on her "You don't deserve-!" pulling her hair "Seducer!" with a 'snap', the necklace was yanked away, and she was running, running in the blind terror that they would chase her, but gradually the mocking voices faded…

She fled to the sanctuary of her room—where the jealous hands could not touch her, when the voices would not mock her, where she could let her defenses down and weep. But it _wasn't_ her fault! she told herself, a sobbing tangle of limbs leaning limply against her door. She had never asked to be a woman—there was no reason behind it; it was just an accident—and she was suddenly full of bitter hatred for her admirer. How _dare_ he impose such a burden upon her? No matter what he might be feeling, no matter what they could've had, there was no use in denying this society. And the very fact that he continued to hide behind gifts and unsigned letters proved the futility of his feelings; if he did not feel strongly enough to oppose society head-on, then he might as well not bother-

There was, she suddenly realized, a single red rose on her desk. It was stunning in its simplicity; it seemed somehow to express a purity of emotion. And beside it was a letter, bearing only an address and a time…

•†•†•†•

She remained in the glittering temple of her room for the rest of the day, until just before sunset, when she crept out and, fearing accusation at every corner, tip-toed to the rose garden.

Everything was red there: red brick walls and walkways; a red sky overhead set with a flaming ruby-red sun; and, of course, red roses. Even the white roses were dyed blood red in this light. It was, she thought, the kind of sunset you ought to get after a catastrophe, or before the Apocalypse… and it took her a moment, in all the brilliant light, to identify the figure that shone the brightest.

He had draped himself gracefully on a bench and was contemplating the sunset, and neither the hard stone he sat on nor the sun which he stared directly into seemed to causes him the slightest discomfort. If only she had resisted his beauty in that first moment—she would think much later, in the last moments of her life—but no; as she stared, momentarily stunned numb (even though, as a think tank candidate, she had naturally seen him from a distance before), he turned his face towards her… and smiled lovingly at her.

"Kirie," he murmured, and she knew—_this_ was his face and his voice, then—knew so strongly that somehow she was crying again. His perfect poise as he came to her only seemed to make her cry harder, even as he murmured wordless comforts.

"H-how?" she choked. "I-it's just not—you are the purest angel in Heaven—and for one like me-"

"Hush," he said, and she obediently bit her lip—only to gasp as he gently stroked her hair. "You are young, it is true—you do not yet realize how desirable you are. I hope that, by now, you do not doubt my love?"

"I-I'm sorry! I lost the necklace you gave me," she babbled, as he touched her face. "The ruby one-"

"Children can by especially cruel," he said, making her gasp again. "But do not hate them; they are only products of society. They are taught to be cruel to attractive women. They push you away because they are afraid they will succumb to your beauty." He cupped her face, using his thumb to brush away the last of her tears. "But I'm not like that. I can honestly say that I adore you." She was scared to meet his eyes, but they drew her—and she found that his gaze was unbelievably kind, as if he understood her fear and was trying to reassure her. "You know, I was thinking of creating a world where I can tell the truth… can freely say that 'I love you.' Will you help me?"

She gawped at him. "_Me?_ But I'm only-"

He waved this away as nothing. "Your brilliance far exceeds your class; only your age holds you back. You will achieve much, given time. I want you by my side… Kirie."

She closed her eyes to better savor the moment. He must really mean it, she realized. These words were from the heart. He—loved her… "Yes."

She felt his lips touch her eyelids, her cheek, her lips, and she knew—_knew_—that this was love.

•†•†•†•

_The purest angel in Heaven…_

Rosiel contemplated these words as he sat by his son's bed, watching him sleep. It was a ridiculous thing, but sometimes he could only relax when he was near Katan. Sometimes he would fall asleep at the boy's bedside and not wake until morning; he knew it worried Katan, finding him there, but boy did not pry. When it came to Rosiel, Katan always had prefect tact.

_The purest angel in Heaven._

He found those words… deeply disturbing. Why was that? Perhaps he was frustrated by her naivety… but no; he was well aware of her naivety already, had taken full advantage of it. As Katan shifted in his sleep, Rosiel tried very hard not to wonder whether or not the boy was that naive as well. Either answer did not seem very appealing; if he was, then he was likely to meet the same fate as that idiot girl… but if he was jaded, then who had made him so…?

On a whim, he leaned forward and kissed his young son, felt him sigh into his lips. _The purest angel in Heaven._

_**Owari**_


End file.
